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THE BISHOP'S RAID. 



WITH OTHEE POEMS. 



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" The exploit might furnish no bad subject for a Border ballad, 
'The Bishop's Eaid.' " — Swtees's History of the Covrnty of 
Durliam, 



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NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE : 
A. REID, PEINTINa COURT BUILDINGS, AKENSIDE HILL. 

1864. 
LFOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION.! 






205449 
..'IS 



To the Memory of Egbert Surtees, Esq., of Mains- 
forth, the Historian of the County of Durham, in obedience 
to whose hint it was written, this Ballad of " The Bishop's 
Raid " is reverently dedicated ; and on the Eve of Christ- 
mas, 1864, it is presented, with the Compliments of the 
Season, to the Friends of the Author, 



JAMES CLEPHAN. 



11, Saville Row, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 



THE BISHOP'S RAID, 



'TwAS a woeful time for England ! 

For famine, pest, and sword 
Ruled o'er the land more royally 

Than her anointed lord. 

There was barrenness in autumn, 
And hunger through the year : 

The earth had lost its fruitfalness, 
The soil was curst and sere : 

And the carrion-crow its larder 
Must leave to famish'd man : 

Babes were a mother's nourishmenty 
Reversing nature's plan : 

Yea ! the babe was known to suffer, 

A parent's life to save; 
And thieves in prison greedily 

Devour'd some brother knave. 



THE BISHOPS RAID. 

'Twas a woeful time for Eng;land, 
The second Edward's reign ! 

The Scots swarm'd o'er the Borders, and 
Northumberland lay slain : 

It was slain by pest and famine ; 

By edge of sword it bled ; 
The quick could hardly bury all, 

And envied sore the dead.* 

Such was the time my story 

Fell out 'twixt Tees and Tweed — 

A time for wail and misery 
None other can exceed. 

Brave Richard, count and bishop, 

This sea of troubles rode : 
With sword and crosier reign'd his hour. 

In Durham's ancient mode. 



* The year 1317 was marked by a repetition of invasion by the Scots, 
and of all the horrors attendant on the progress of an exasperated and 
avenging enemy. Three successive years of steriUty had carried the 
public distress to the highest pitch. The ravages of scarcity and sickness 
were not confined to the North ; and the general calamities of the times 
are described by the contemporary historians in terms almost too highly- 
coloured to meet belief. Prisoners devoured each other in the gaols, and 
mothers hid their children lest they should furnish a repast equally horrid. 
(^Surtees.) The dearth was so great in Northumberland, in 1317, that 
the people were obliged to eat the flesh of horses and dogs. (^Hutchinson.') 
There was a grievous famine and mortality at Newcastle, " insomuch," 
says Bourne, " that the quick could hardly bury the dead ; and a great 
corruption of cattle and grass. Some ate the flesh of their own children ; 
and thieves in prison devoured those that were newly brought in, and 
greedily ate them half -alive." (Brand.') 



He died ,* and now the Convent 

Must choose another lord. 
The monks were canvass'd by the king-, 

The queen their votes implored. 

Her cripple-eousin Beaumont, 

The mitre he must wear. 
The Cowl was sturdy 'g-ainst the Crown, 

And deaf to Edward's prayer. 

Earls Lancaster and Pembroke, 

And Hereford, the door 
Besieged ; and Henry Beaumont, too ; 

With lawless ramp and roar. 

The savage nobles hector' d, 

To beat the Convent down : 
They swore " that if a monk they chose, 

They 'd split his shaven crown." 

Bold-hearted monks ! nor baron 
Nor king could make them rue : 

They stood up for their ancient rights — 
Were to their order true. 

Henry, the monk of Stamford — 

Of Finchale prior he : 
This was the man the Convent chose 

Of Durham lord to be. 

He, not the stranger Frenchman, 
Should reign upon the Wear. 

Pierce raved the royal Isabel, 
Their stern resolve to hear. 



THE BISHOPS RAID. 

The King of France's daughter 

At Edward's feet fell down, 
And pray'd with tears the Convent's choice 

He'd steadfastly disown. 

The Kings of France and England, 
They hasten'd to Pope John, 

That so his Romish Holiness 
For Beaumont might be won. 

And when on foot monk Henry, 

Outrun by royal speed, 
Reach'd Peter's chair, he found the Pope 

To him no friend in need. 

Queen Isabel's proud cousin 

Must have the bishop's chair j 
And Henry to his monkish cell 

In Stamford must repair. 

The learned monk went safely 

Upon his modest way : 
His vain, illiterate rival — he 

Was mark'd for reiver's pray, . 

With nobles and with gentry, 

With knights and squires rode he j 

On either hand a cardinal ; 
So Beaumont sought his see. 

At Darlington a message 

Came to the cavalcade : 
The Convent sent the bishop word 

Of an intended raid. 



THE bishop's raid. 

But Beaumont scorn'd the warning ; 

He would not be appall'd ; 
He would, on Cuthbert's festival, 

At Durham be install'd. 

So, on the rich procession 

Pursued the bridle-way, 
Past Aycliife to the Rushy Ford, 

In sumptuous array. 

On rode the blind lord-bishop. 

The cardinals and all, 
With richly-laden sumpter-mules, 

Whatever mig-ht befal. 

What mig-ht befal, his lordship 

Foresaw when 'twas too late ; 
For at the ford a cloud of horse 

Came down to tell his fate. 

Bold men of broken fortunes 

Swept down upon the line. 
Led on by Gilbert Middleton, 

From Mitford 'yont the Tyne. 

They captured and they plunder'd, 

A sorry sig-ht to see ! 
The cousin of Queen Isabel, 

A woeful wig-ht was he ! 

Knight, cardinal, and bishop — 

Their train was sorely maul'd : 
They 'd little thought how Beaumont should 

In Durham be install'd. 



10 THE bishop's raid. 

The cardinals, who'd journey'd 
His crowning- rites to grace, 

Must now for mercy in the dust 
Their scarlet hats abase. 

Sir Gilbert gave the order • 

The cardinals to sjiare : 
They and their followers must go free — 

To harm them none must dare. 

All then began a-crying 

"The cardinals alone 
" Their masters were :" the prelate-prince 

For leader none would own. . 

This would not do ! The reivers. 

To put an end to doubt, 
In spite of Rome they rifled all. 

And turn'd them inside out. 

The cardinals, they left them 

Their nags to ride away : 
The rest were stripp'd of all they had, 

At breaking of the day. 

The bishop was made captive, 

His brother Henry, too. 
And borne away to Wansbeck-side, 

In castle-keep to mew : 

To Morpeth and to Mitford, . 

To bold to ransom there. 
Queen Isabel was frantic when 

She heard of Beaumont's lair. 



THE bishop's raid. 11 

Her cousin held in bondage ! 

King- Philip's daughter said 
Swift vengeance must o'ertake the knight 

Who led the Border raid. 

But nothing cared Sir Gilbert, 
• The sheriff's near of kin, 
Who 'd suffer'd wrongs at Edward's hands : 
He heeded not a pin. 

He heeded not at Mitford 

The anger of the Crown : 
The northern Robin Hood would list 

To nought but money down. 

The Church, to win a bishop 

'Twould rather be without, 
Must therefore be prevail'd upon 

To let its treasures out. 

Sir Gilbert got his ransom 

(More than his prize was worth) ; 

And from his Mitford lodgings quick 
The bishop he came forth : 

Came forth to shock the Convent — 

So ignorant and vain ! 
But was he not the kinsman of 

A queen ? — then why complain ? * 

« 

* Beaumont was consecrated at Westminster on the 26th of March, 1318. 
The monks must have been shocked and surprised at the strange mixture 
of levity and ignorance which their new bishop exhibited during- the 
solemnity. Unable to pronounce the word metropolitiee in the official 
instrument, he cried out, in his native French, " Let us suppose it read." 
Proceeding further, in cenigmitate stopped him altogether ; when he ex- 
claimed, " By Louis ! it is not courteous to introduce such words." 
(^Longstaffe's Darlington.) 



12 THE bishop's raid. 

The Bishop's Raid is ended ; 

For Gilbert ends so well, 
That soon he has another raid, 

Which ends but with his knell. 

In arms against weak Edward, 

The castles of his shire, 
Save Alnwick, Norham, Bamboroug-h, 

He seized j and sword and fire, 

From Tweed far o'er to Cleveland, 
He carried in his wrath. 

With dearth and deadly pestilence 
Companions of his path. 

The scourg-e aroused the country. 

His ravages to stay ; 
And as increased the loyalists, 

His followers fell away. 

Till, falling back on Mitford, 

Within his castle-gate 
He shut himself securely there, 

A better time to wait. 

Secure, but for the traitors 
Who ate Sir Gilbert's bread 

(However he came by it), and 
Who sold their leader's head. 

Tried and condemn'd in London, 
The king gave word that he 

Be through the City dragg'd in shame, 
And hang'd upon a tree. 



THE bishop's raid. 13 

Ere dead to be beheaded — 

His head in London shown : 
His hearty the fountain of his crimes 

'Gainst God, and Church, and Throne — 

His heart to be to ashes, 
Where he was hang-'d, burnt down : 

His quarters stuck on high, that none 
Might court his dark renown : 

One quarter sent to Dover -, 

To York, its dismal share ; 
To Bristol, one ; the fourth, upon 

Tyne Bridge to cry " Beware !" 

Such was the bloody lesson 

The royal tutor made. 
By head and heart and limb of him 

Who led the Bishop's Raid. 

'Twas woeful, then, in England ! 

We live in better days. 
To God be glory ; and our lives 

May they express our praise ! 

The story of the raid, which is variously told, occupies a page 
or two of Mr. Hodgson Hinde's volume on " Northumberland." He says 
(pp. 299-300) : — In 1317, Pope John, who had been placed at the head of 
the Latin Church the previous year, resolved to make an efEort to effect 
an accommodation between the King of England and, as he expresses 
himself, " him who pretends to be King of Scotland." With this view, 
having first, of his own authority, proclaimed a truce for two years, he 
sent two cardinals, John of Ossa and Luke de Fieschi, to mediate a peace. 
Their mission was fruitless ; but it claims a place in Northumbrian 
history in connection with one of the most remarkable outrages ever 
perpetrated in that county. The weak and indecisive measures of King 
Edward were topics of loud complaint on the Borders, and were made 
the subject of a remonstrance, which was addressed to the king himself 
by Adam de Swinburne, the sheriff of the county. This plain speaking 
was resented by Edward, who committed the sheriff to prison. The flame 
of rebellion, which had long smouldered among the pliindered and perse- 



14 THE bishop's raid. 

cuted Northumbrians, now burst forth. Having in vain looked to the 
king for protection, they refused longer to submit to his capricious and 
violent government. Among the malcontents was Gilbert de Middleton, 
a near relative of John dc Middleton of Belsay, and a cousin of Adam de 
Swinburne, the late sherifE. In his hands was the strong castle of Mitf ord, 
of which he seems to have been constable under Aymer de Valence, the 
proprietor. This fortress afforded an admirable retreat for the insurgents, 
who chose Gilbert de Middleton for their chief. Whatever may have been 
their original intentions, their operations soon degenerated into a system 
of organized plunder : — and this in a district akeady impoverished by the 
repeated ravages of the Scots. In one of their predatory incursions, 
Gilbert and his associates fell in with the two cardinals as they were 
travelling from Darlington to Durham, in company with the bishop of the 
diocese, and his brother Lord Henry de Beaumont. The site of the ren- 
counter appears, from an entry in the Rotuli Scotice, to have been at Hett, 
in the parish of Merrington, where the ecclesiastics were secured without 
resistance. The two cardinals were allowed to proceed on their journey ; 
but the bishop and his brother were carried with them, the former being 
retained at Morpeth, the latter at Mitf ord, until heavy ransoms were paid 
for their release. With this daring act the career of Middleton was brought 
to a close, his capture being shortly afterwards effected by some of his 
neighbours, who had suffered from his depredations, and laid wait for him. 
He was conveyed to London, tried, and executed ; and his own estates, 
and those of many of his followers, confiscated. Some of his band escaped 
to Horton Castle, where they were received under the protection of Walter 
Selby, a brother freebooter, who there maintained himself in defiance of 
the authorities on either side of the Border. 

Mr. Longstaffe, after an examination of the evidences, comes to the 
conclusion, as to the place of capture, "that Eushyford is entitled to 
the preference." (^Arclimolofjia ^liana, vi. 66.) He quotes Surtees : — 
" At the Rushyford, midway betwixt the small villages of Woodham and 
Ferryhill, the road crosses a small and sullen rivulet, in a low and seques- 
tered spot, weU-calculated for surprise and the prevention of escape. In 
Hymefs Fcedera, the robbery is said to have taken place at Aile, perhaps 
Acle, i.e. Aycliffe, three miles south from Eushyford, where the passage 
over the Skerne would be equally convenient. The exploit might furnish ' 
no bad subject for a Border ballad, ' The Bishop's Eaid.' " 

The ballad is now written ; and the writer, in executing a commission 
which no worthier hand had undertaken, has kept as close as possible to 
chronicle and history. The same remark also applies to the ballad of 
" The Death op Walchee," and other historical poems, printed on 
subsequent pages. 



THE DEATH OF WALCHEB. 



It was in the flowering month of May, 
Twice winters seven had flown 

Since Harold the Saxon king- was slain, 
By William overthrown. 

Earl Waltheof, g-iant Siward's son, 

Lay bloody in his g-rave 
At Croyland j slaughter'd on the block 

The Norman's crown to save. 

His head upon his shoulders broad, 
The Conqueror lived in fear : 

At Winchester the axe must fall. 
And end the Saxon peer. 

And Eg-elwin — last bishop he 

Of Saxondom who sway'd 
The crook on Durham's sacred mount — ■ 

To peace of death was laid : 

A fugitive, contemn'd of all, 

Weak, avaricious, sly, 
In Norman toils at Abing'don 

'Twas his to meanly die. 



IG THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 

Old Walcher of Lorraine was now, 
North of the winding- Tees, 

Both prince and bishop too ; for so 
Did gTeat Duke William please. 

Of mild and g-entle spirit he, 
Not firm in rule and strong- — 

Wild licence boldly walk'd abroad, 
And g'ood men suffer'd wrong-. 

The Eli of the Church, nor free 
From sins that were his own, 

He shame and hate incurr'd by deeds 
Of men around his throne. 

The Saxon noble, Liulph, loved 

By his own people all, 
To Siward and Gospatric kin. 

And reverend in his fall. 

Dwelt under Walcher's solemn pledge, 
He and his household dear, 

O'ershadow'd by the castle walls 
Upon the banks of Wear. 

With Adelgitha, of the blood 
Of Uchtred, dwelt he there, 

His "little chickens and their dam" 
About him in his lair. 

At dead of night came Leofwine, 
The bishop's chaplain he, 

Who 'd menaced oft the Saxon lord. 
And Walcher there to see. 



THK DEATH OF WALCHER. 17 

With Leofwine was Gilbert fierce, 

(Kinsman, and sheriff too, 
Of Walcher,) and stout men of arms, 

Their lawless will to do. 

Lord Liulph, in unguarded sleep, 

With all his household lay : 
They slept the sleep of death before 

The peaceful dawn of day. 

The horror ran from Wear to Tees — 

To Tyne and distant Tweed : 
All native hearts were fill'd with fire^ 

And wrathful at the deed. 

The treacherous crime must be avenged : 

The Norman must make good, 
By his own life, for sacrifice 

Of precious Saxon blood. • 

The pent-up fire of freeborn men. 

Subdued to foreign yoke, 
To open flame that must devour 

Through Liulph's death had broke. 

In vain weak Walcher met with words 

The storm of human wrath. 
Which rose and raged as though 'twould sweep 

The bishop from its path. 

In hope to still the tempest down, 

He sent to South and North, 
And West and East, all o'er his see, 

His urgent summons forth. 



18 THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 

At Gatesliead, where St. JMary's church, 
Among- the spreading- oaks, 

O'erlook'd the flowing; Tjne below, 
A council he invokes, 

To deal with Liulph's death, and by 

Collective cunning find 
Some subtle means to soften down 

The outraged Saxon mind. 

'Twas in the flowering month of May, 
Twice winters seven had flown 

Since Harold was at Hastings slain, 
By William overthrown. 

In May, upon the fourteenth day, 

His council Walcher met : 
His throne was in Our Lady's church 

In Gateshead parish set. 

The Norman chiefs in Church and State, 

Beside him and before, 
Were gather'd there ; and loud without 

Was heard the angry roar 

Of Saxon men, whom Eadulf Eus, 

Gospatric's grandson, led. 
Descendant of great Uchtred, long 

The brave and honour'd head 

Of lands that stretch'd from Humber's flood 
Far northward to the Tweed — 

A stalwart earl, renown'd in war 
And peace, by word and deed. 



THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 19 

Prince-bishop and the Saxon came 

To parley on the spot. 
The Norman trimm'd j and Saxon blood 

From warm grew madly hot. 

Alarm'd, the prelate was prepared 

To make some compromise : 
His sheriff Gilbert he would give 

For instant sacrifice. 

The Saxons with derision heard 

The bishop thus propose 
To yield a part, when all were there 

At mercy of their foes. 

Doom'd Gilbert and his band they slew, 

And likewise Leofwine ; 
Nor yet content that so should end 

This council of the Tyne. 

Had Walcher not in friendship lived 

With Liulph's murderers twain ? 
Was not upon his head the blood 

Of him so foully slain ? 

" Short red, good red," the leaders cried : 

Short reckoning is the best. 
"Short red, good red : the bishop slay!" 

Such was their fell behest. 

The trembling Walcher, who before 

Urged Leofwine to brave 
The storm without — his life, mayhap, 

From Saxon steel to save — 



20 THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 

Now shrunk within the 'leagured churchy 
With guard of Norman swords. 

Alas ! nor wall nor gieaming- blade 
A safe defence affords ! 

" Short red^ g-ood red ! the bishop slay !" 
Nought can their purpose turn. 

Bring hither, quick, the flaming torch : 
He dies, though church must burn. 

The brand is brought — the light applied — 

St, Mary's set in flame : 
The scorching fire and stifling smoke 

Around the Norman came. 

Now save yourselves ! The men of mail 
Fled swift from Walcher's side -, 

And he must choose to die by sword, 
Or in the fire abide. 

His choice was made. He raised his robes 

To veil his aged face, 
And from the porch he slowly walk'd, 

With dignity and grace. 

His finger traced upon his breast 
The Christian's sacred sign : 

His body he gave up to man — 
His soul to the Divine. 

No ruth was yet in Saxon hearts : 
Not yet appeased their rage 

With Gilbert's blood, and Leofwine's : 
The bishop's must assuage : — 



THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 21 

The bishop's life must close the account -, 

And Eadulf Rus stood by, 
With deadly spear in hand, by which 

The sacrifice must die. 

Where, just before, the cross was sign'd, 

The thirsting' spear was thrust ; 
And Saxon swords in meaner hands 

Hew'd Walcher to the dust. 

" Short red, good red," was echoed back 

When William heard the tale 
Of Walcher's death : the land, he swore, 

The tragedy should wail. 

He swore by Splendour of the Heavens, 

The Saxon race should rue 5 
And northward sent, to wreak his wrath. 

The Bishop of Bayeux. 

The land, laid waste from Ouse to Tyne 

When Cumin and his men 
The Saxons slew with sword and fire, 

Must now lie waste again. 

And Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, 

Half-brother of the king, 
Must northward speed, with man and horse, 

To do this fearful thing. 

Unheal'd the scars of Cumin's time. 

The Norman scourged anew 
Northumbria's unhappy soil, 

By Odo of Bayeux. 



22 THE DEATH OF WALCHER. 

And often, in the after-days, 
By Gateshead's old Oak Well, 

Near where, by Eadulf Rus's spear. 
The grey-hair'd bishop fell. 

The maids and matrons gossipp'd how. 

When Liulph he was slain. 
The vengeftil Saxon shed the blood 
' Of Walcher of Lorraine. 

And some, who 'd seen both Eg-elwin 
And Walcher, told, and sigh'd. 

How one, of Saxon bishops last, 
Had in a dungeon died ; 

And how the other, first among 
The Norman bishops, came 

To cruel death at Saxon hands. 
By sword and spear and flame. 

No longer, round the old Oak Well, 
The gossips now are found j 

But still the mournful tale comes down, 
Though with uncertain sound ; 

Still is it told, in hall and cot, * 
By many a calm fireside. 

How Liulph, Lumley's lord, was slain, 
And Bishop Walcher died. 



THE CHUECH AND THE CASTLE. 



With shriek and snort rush'd Vidcan's steed 

Along- the banks of Tyne^ 
Past Wylam's classic cot — of Georg-e, 

Great master-smith, the shrine — 
His cradle-shrine, where Nature school'd 

The child with wisest skill 
Whom she desig-n'd through coming' time 

A world-wide throne to fill. 

And now, with speed that mocks the wind, 

We pass on either side 
The Norman keep that lies a wreck. 

The church that doth abide. 
Umfireville's walls on Prudhoe's steep — 

Their pride hath pass'd away : 
Baronial force, on England's g-round, 's 

A thing of yesterday. 
The ruin on this verdant knoll 

Lends beauty to the scene — 
A moral points, and tells a tale 

Of what in yore hath been. 



24 THE CHURCH AND THE CASTLE. 

'Tis but a fragment of the past ; 

While yonder Saxon fane 
Doth still, and with an added grace, 

Its ancient use maintain. 

How sweetly on yon sunny bank 

Stands Ovingham's grey tower, 
Where Bewick's bones were laid to rest. 

When past his little hour ! 
That scene, more sacred than before, 

Since now his dust it shrines. 
How loved he, with his touch of skill, 

To grave in fairest lines ! 

And thou, brave monk, once Master, here, 

Shall we forsret how bold 
Thy stand against the Tudor king, 

In England's days of old ? 
What if thy creed be not our own. 

In all its breadth and length. 
Honour be thine for putting forth 

'Gainst tyranny thy strength : 
All honour that thou took'st thy stand 

By Prior Lawrence' side, 
Last of his line in Hexham, who 

For conscience grandly died — 
Who died on Tyburn tree, before 

He would his faith forswear. 
And to the king-, as Lord Supreme 

In Church, allegiance bear. 

Let Faith, not Force, the monarch be ! 

Speed on, thou car of fire ! 
Make the rough places plain, Steam ! 

Work out high Heaven's desire. 



THE CHURCH AND THE CASTLE. 25 

Bring down the hills, exalt the vales. 

Make straight the crooked way ; 
And to and fro let Knowledge run, 

And haste the coming day, 
When Right and Truth and Love shall fill, 

And Faith, not Force, the throne ; 
When done the Church's perfect work, 

The Castle all unknown- 



1^^ Hexham Abbey, on tlie 28tli of September, 1536, was visited by 
Commissioners appointed to carry tlie Dissolution into eflEect. No prior 
had been appointed since the death of Lawrence, hanged at Tyburn in 
1535 ; " and the sub-prior appears to have been a timid man ; but amongst 
the monks was found one possessed of dauntless spirit and resolution, 
who was determined not to yield without a struggle to the arbitrary 
exercise of the secular power j and in this resolution he was vigorously 
supported by his brethren and their dependents. The name of the leader 
is not preserved ; but he held the office of master of the ceU of Ovingham, 
founded by the last of the Umfrevilles, barons of Prudhoe." (Hodgson, 
Sinde^s Northumherland.') The Commissioners state, in their account 
of the proceedings preserved in the Public Eecord Office, that " a chalone, 
called the Maister of Ovingham, being in harness, with a bow bent with 
arrows, accompanied with divers other persons, all standing upon the leads 
and walls of the house and steeple, which Maister of Ovingham answered 
these words under written : — ' We be twenty brethren in this house ; and 
we shall die all, or that ye have this house.' " There is a tradition that 
the brave monk was hanged in front of the priory, over the gateway, for 
his resistance to " the king's most dread commandment of dissolution." 
" It is interesting to detect the traces [in Ovingham] of his dwelling, which 
comprises the modest schoolroom in which the historian [Mr. Hodgson 
Hinde], and the wood engraver of Cherryburn, and a host of north' 
country worthies received their education," (^ArcTicsologia Mliana, vi. 

12J:.) 



D 



DEATHBED OF ELIZABETH STUART, 

CROMWELL'S MOTHER. 



A CENTURY of years, or near, 

Had run their course away, 
Since, softly on lier cradle-couch. 

The infant Stuart lay. 

Born when the Virgin Queen was throned, 
And christen'd in her name : — 

And now, stretch'd on her bed of death. 
Her life a flickering flame. 

Beside her dying pillow stands 
Great Cromwell, England's lord, 

Low bending o'er his mother's lips, 
To catch her parting word. 

" Dear son !" with feeble breath she says, 

"I leave my heart with thee : 
" Good night !" and with a smile serene, 

Her loving soul goes free. 

Tears for the dead — and "• dust to dust :" 

The last sad tribute give. 
Then, Lord Protector, forth again. 

To live for those who live. 



Cromwell's mother. 27 

For til with tliy legacy — her heart — 

Worn warmly in thy own : 
An amulet amid the cares 

That wait upon thy throne. 

Unmovahle, as standing in 

Thy great Taskmaster's sight ; 
And comforted, in every thing*, 

To hear her sweet " Good night !" 

Fond farewell word ! " Good night," " Good night," 

Our loved ones softly sigh, 
As, one by one, they inly feel 

The parting hour draw nigh. 

" Good night," they whisper in our ears, 

And gently pass away : 
" Good night !" and sink to sleep of death. 

We '11 meet at break of day. 



FLORENCE AND ANNIE 

AN EPITAPH. 



*' At Stockton, on the 24th of March, 1859, aged 2 years and 2 months, 
Florence and Annie, twin daughters of Mr. Appleby, bookseller." — 
Darlington Times, 



Twin-born they came. Two years, two months, 

The two to Earth were given. 
Then God reclaim'd his twofold gift, 

Twin-born to Earth and Heaven. 



RUINOUS RIGHTS, 

OR THE BISHOP'S STURGEON. 



The Bishop of Durliam, when count-palatine, 
Could boast — " The big' fishes — whale, sturg-eon — are mine. 
" If caug-ht in my waters, to me they belong- : 
" Whoever else keeps them, he does me foul wrong"." 
And thus it fell out, when five sturg-eons were caught 
At his manor of Howden, they straightway were brought 
To Cosin's glad steward, who largess'd the wight 
That gave to his heart such a draught of delight. 
Rejoicing as though the good-luck were his own, 
His love for his master the bishop was shown. 
The sturgeons he placed in the hands of the cook, 
Who put his expenses all down in a book. 
One, seven, and sixpence for vinegar went. 
At twenty the gallon ; and at thirty-two, 
One, ^leven, and fourpence for white wine was due. 
^carce less than six pounds altogether was spent, 
With dill and rosemary, and other odd things 
Used in curing the fishes of bishops and kings. 
Five, seventeen, one,, to be nice in the county 
Was to an odd penny the total amount. 
The sturgeons were cured — preserved were the dues 
Of the Church, which some folks are too apt to refuse. 
And when the five fishes were duly prepared, 
They by the just steward must wisely be shared. 
Lord Clarendon — he of the History — got 
What a baron might think not too small for his pot. 



MALCOLM AND MARGARET. 29 

And so, Lady Gerard and others were sent 

Of sturgeon enough to ensure their content. 

And Cosin had certainly more than his fill, 

When he got from his vigilant steward — the bill. 

The bishop (good soul !) had his temper, and wrote 

To his manor in Yorkshire a peppery note. 

" What mean you, Sir Steward of Howden," said he^ 

" When with dill and rosemary you're iteming me ? 

"A pound and some shillings expended for fish, 

" To send to my lord and my lady a dish ! 

" Pray catch no more sturgeons for me, or I'm lost 

" If you're lucky in fishing at so much of cost. 

" Should you happen to 'light in the Ouse on a shoal 

" Of whales, I'd be certainly swallow'd up whole !" 



MALCOLM AND MAEGAKET, 



The end of all his wars^ 
By Percy's castle walls 
Great Malcolm Canmore, Scotland's king^ 
With his son Edward, falls. 

The Saxon Margaret lies 
Upon her bed of pain : 
Her lord and son are long away — 
Why come they not again I 



30 



Low whispering' voices come : 
" The queen — she must not know." 
Tn vain ! Her boding- ear is quick 
For faintest note of woe. 

" How fares it, boy ?" she asks 
Her child ; to answer loth. 
" Your father ? — brother ? — tell me. Sir, 
'^ How fares it with them both ?" 

" Dead, mother ! slain !" he says. 
To Heaven she lifts her eyes, 
And folds her arms. " Thy will be done," 
She whispers — and she dies. 



THE BISHOP'S MOTHER. 



Robert de Insula — Robert of Halieland — 

The Lindisfarne laddie who answers the call 
Of monk and of prior — a kitchen-boy runabout — 

An urchin who 's born to be lord of them all. 
Robin is monk — Robin is prior — 
Prior of Finchale — then a step higher. 
Rob of the Isle is the Bishop of Durham when 

The first of the Edwards is wearing the crown. 
He thinks of his mother — he makes her a lady-grand 

Fair mansion he gives her in which to sit down. 



THE bishop's mother. 31 

Servants to wait on her — men-servants, maid-servants : 

Whatever a woman might ask or desire. 
The bishop — (kind son !) — in care for her happiness, 

Would have her enjoy all that life could require. 
Robert means well — g'ood is he, very : 
Kindness, however, will sometimes miscarry. 
Robert is passing- : he halts, and he calls on her. 

" How fares my sweet mother ?" says he to the dame. 
" Ne'er worse," is her answer. Curter than pleasing 'tis. 

" And what is it ails thee ?" he begs her to name. 
" Has she not serving-men — women enough for her ?" 

Inquires the good bishop ; and — " Yes," then, says she. 
" Enough ? aye, and more ! To one I say, ' Go, fellow !' 

" He runs. To another ' Come !' Quick on his knee 
" Drops down the varlet. I speak — and they wait on me. 

" All goes on so smooth — so unwrinkled my lot — 
" My heart 's fit to break for something to spite me with : 

" There's nothing to quarrel with — no, not a jot !" 

Robert de Insula — Robert of Halieland — 
Why would you make of your mother a lady-grand ? 
Why did you take her away from her cottage where. 
Keeping one maiden she lived blithe and happy there ? 
Sons who get forward, be kind to your mothers dear, 
Lift them, however, not quite to another sphere. 
Bishops, translated, mayn't find too much comfort by 't : 
Quarrels with clergy may temper their high delight. 
Quiet old ladies, accustom'd to active life. 
Make them too easy not — leave them a little strife. 
Robert's reward for a lesson may well suffice : — 
Earth mustn't be made too much of a Paradise. 



CUE TEIAL STATE. 



(THE THOUGUIS FROM LADY RACHEL RUSSELL.) 



We live on trial here, 
Probation is our end j 
Then wonder not some crosses He 
Should with His comforts send. 

There is no passing throug-h 

This world to yon on high/ 

Without some trials of our faith, 

Some clouds across our sky. 

And sometimes shifts the scene 
So fast, our little day 
May end, before we blindly think 
That we have gone half-way. 

Time flies with rapid wing : 
Eternity is near. 
Whose happiness depends on how 
We spend our moments here. 

Live well the allotted time ; 
The right, and not the wrong. 
Pursue ; you cannot die too soon, 
Nor can you live too long. 



THE POET'S FUNEKAL.* 



Silent and calm the wall'd and sacred garden, 
Voice is there none but song- of warbling linnet, 
Flitting from tree to tree with blossoms laden. 
'Mong the green leaves Spring writes with rosy fingers 
Promise of Autumn and its rich abundance. 
Perfumes of flowers that lire but for their beauty, 
Float up in incense from the lawn smooth-shaven, 
Mingling* their fragrance with the luscious odours 
Shed by the damask bloom of boughs fruit-fraughten. 
From fairy cups of jewell'd gold and silver, 
Bees in the sunshine quaff their fill of nectar, 
Luxurious draughts of Nature's pure distilment. 
Sweet is the air and idle is the Zephyr. 
Earth with her children speaks in loving whispers, 
God is discoursing in the garden-silence. 

Hark ! the deep boom fi'om yonder lofty belfi'y 
Breaks in upon this fair and quiet Eden ! 
Toll ! toll ! the knell moans, sad and slow and solemn. 
Ope fly the doors, and o'er the yellow pathway 
Streams the long line of stoled and sable mourners. 
Filling with gloom the pleasant spi-ing-time orchard. 
Heaven dons in sympathy her mourning garments. 
Clouds cast their pall across the dark procession. 
Big tear-drops 'mong the branches beat and patter. 
Zephyr floats sighing o'er the leaves and blossoms. 

* The funeral of Thomas Wilson, Esq., Fell House, Gateshead, author 
of " The Pitman's Pay," who was born Sunday, November 14, 1773, and 
died Sunday, May 9, 1858. 



34 THE poet's funeral. 

Trees wave farewell — trees which his own hands planted, 
Wlio, from his lifelong- home, by son and grandson, 
Kinsmen and neighbours, borne, departs for ever. 
Faces, unseen, are at the shrouded casements, 
Watching' and weeping" o'er his last outgoing', 
Anguish'd that he, the loved and the lamented, 
Pride of their home, its happiness and honour. 
Whose going' and whose coming, morn and evening, 
Day after day, through years of life-domestic, 
Swung to and fi'o upon the household dial, 
Should come and go no more — for ever — never I 

Toll, doleful toll ! Onward from house to churchyard. 
Blinds dim the light in every cottage-window. 
Tribute to him whose death is common sorrow. 
Highway and lane are lined all through the village. 
Gossips are cluster'd at the open doorways. 
Kindling remembrance of his many virtues ; 
Proudly recounting to their wondering children. 
How, in his childhood, he, too, was a pit-boy, 
Toiling for bread there ; but for learning, also ; 
Earnest at book and labour ; striving, rising j 
Mounting from pitman up to princely merchant ; 
Living and dying where his humble parents 
Gave him his birth and good and honest breeding ; 
True to his village, faithful to his order ; 
Brother and friend to poor and needy alway. 

Up in the bell-tower tolls the village-ringer. 
Up to the Silent City climb the mourners. 
Cleric in surplice reads of hope and comfort — 
Faith in the great Hereafter of our being. 
Falters the aged clerk in his responses — 
Moved from the rote and round of daily custom. 
By keen remembrance of his friend and patron. 



THE SEASIDE BRIDAL. 35 

Now to the yawning grave they bear his body ; 
And as "the voice from heaven" the priest is naming, 
Out bursts the thunder of the answering welkin. 
Earth claims its earth — to ashes give his ashes. 
Heaven takes its own : — and lo ! the serried lightning 
Parts the thick clouds, and peals again the thunder. 
Nature rejoices o'er her child — her poet — 
Eased of the load of more than fourscore winters — 
Borne to the land of never-ending summer. 



THE SEASIDE BEIDAL. 



The village-street and green are gay 
With banners bright of every hue; 

And proudly on the yellow sands 

Floats England's meteor flag, True Blue. 

With note of preparation comes 
The all-important morning hour, 

When Lady Blanche, in wedding trim, 
Must leave for church her bridal bower. 

The church in ivy-green is clad; 

The bride array'd in virgin white; 
In white and pink the bridesmaids fair. 

Four comely pairs, are gaily dight. 

Two pretty fairies in the rear. 

Attired in white and blue, are seen; 

And up the shore, with joyous roar, 
Old Ocean comes in white and green. 



36 THE SEASIDE BRIDAL, 

And when the bride walks up the aisle, 
The clouds dispart, and on her head, 

Through all the lancet-window panes, 
A flood of sunny light is shed. 

Behind the cloud (so Heaven would teach 
This maiden on her wedding-day) , 

However dark, there shines the sun. 
Whose beams shall chase the gloom away. 

And as the Lady Blanche comes forth. 
And quits the church a happy wife, 

An aged dame, " who from a child 
" Has known her all her maiden Hfe," 

Invokes a blessing on her head. 
With praises on her kith and kin j 

And all that hear her say "Amen," 
For they have lived all hearts to win. 

Long thus, upon our happy shores, 
May rich and poor be knit in one, 

And in each other's joys and woes 
Have sympathy beneath the sun ! 



THE SNOW STORM. 



The sun is high, the sky is blue, 
I leave at home my paraplue 
(I spell it so for sake of rhyme), 

And going" forth in crystal air, 

I wander here, I tarry there, 
And come not back till midnight time. 
How great the change ! The sky drops down 
In pieces o'er the silent town ! 
Each moment come, with noiseless fall, 
A million marvels over all — 
A million flakes of heaven descend ! 
And as my wintry way I wend. 
Like a White Lion March comes in. 
Muffled in wool up to his chin. 
White is the air, white is the street. 
White is everybody I meet. 
Be she dress'd in blue or black — 
Eed or brown the cloak on her back — 
Every woman I meet to-night 
Elits ghostly by, a Woman in White ! 
Wilkie Collins, in wild romance, 
May lead us through a mazy dance ; 
Yet what romance so wondrous, say, 
As is the life of one short day ? 
A breath, unseen, is blown ; and lo ! 
The viewless air is full of snow ! 
Over the table that feeds us all, 

A cloth is spread of purest white, 

Miracle of a winter's night ! 
Wonderful, beautiful sight, Snowfall ! 



THE ELECTBIO LIGHT 



From out the dark, at curfew hour, 

A feeble spark of sullen light 
Gleam'd forth upon the old church-tower 

That crown'd the crowded living height ; 

A spark that burst to dazzling blaze, 
And scatter'd round a quick surprise, 

Arresting' footsteps, as its rays 
Fell down upon a thousand eyes. 

On bridge and bank, in street and square, 
The startled wanderer paused to scan 

The shining sun which mock'd the glare 
Of envious gas, struck pale and wan. 

The streaming glory grew, and stretch'd 
A widening cone of spectral light — 

Phantasmagoric pictures sketch'd 
Before the wondering eye of night. 

What prophecy of things unborn 

Is this, that from the steeple streams — 

Of some far-off, or nigh, new morn. 
To light our world with nobler beams ? 



THE YEAR. 39 

From dimmest point of fire at first, 

The ray of heavenly science burns ; 
Then comes at last the grand out-burst. 

And darkness into daylight turns. 

The spark becomes a glowing- star, 

With lengthening and with widening cone, 

Which shineth near — which shineth far — 
And men a brighter glory own. 



THE YEAR. 



Break, Year, upon the shore of Time, 

Break, Year, and die. 
Breathe out into the silent Past 

Thy latest sigh. 

Close up thy work of good and ill. 

Of light and shade : 
The passing-bell awaits thy death. 

Thy grave is made. 

No more the clock shall go its, round 

To mark thy flight : 
No sun shall rise again for thee — 

Thou diest to-night. 

No respite or reprieve. The earth 

And stars on high 
Bring ruthless round thy parting pang, 

And thou must die. 



40 THE TEAR. 

The beating pulse — the ticking clock — 

The falling grains — 
Count off thy life. Thy days are fled — 

Thy last hour wanes. 

Time's swiftest hand shall sweep no more 

The dial's rbund, 
Till from the old church-tower the clock 

Thy knell shall sound. 

" One, two." The tongue of Time proclaims 

One quarter gone. 
The watch-night flies. No pause. And hark ! 

Two quarters flown. 

Linger ! linger ! silent hand ! 

The hour prolong. — 
Remorseless Time ! thou mock'st my prayer 

With stern " Ding, dong !" 

One quarter left ! Old Year, prepare 

To fill thy bier : 
Thy breath is short. And hither comes 

The young New Year. 

Give out the hour. Let midwife Night 

Bring in the Morn. 
Pass Death ! come Life ! The changing Year 

Is dead ! is born ! 



NEWCASTLB-VPON-TVNE : 4. lililD, nUNTINO COURT BUIIJ)1NQ3, AKENSIDE mLI,. 



